


Post-Traumatic Growth

by SherlockWho



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Fix-It, Latex Gloves, M/M, Romance, Slash, They love each other, Virgin Sherlock, but really so much love, fingers in ass, john wants sherlock, lots of ass play, mary's not terrible, really dead, she's dead though, sherlock s4 fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 06:47:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockWho/pseuds/SherlockWho
Summary: John has an experience during an annual physical that will change his relationship with Sherlock forever.*graphic descriptions of men who want to have their prostates touched by their up-to-now platonic life partners inside*





	

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: I have not seen s4e3. I can't. I've seen too much grief on Tumblr and it scares me. But I've also seen a few gifsets that lead me to believe this could be redeemed, which is why I wrote this fic. So if it seemed I ignored a nuance from that episode, please understand I didn't ignore it. I just haven't been exposed to it.
> 
> Consider this my way of working through my sadness. Because if two men ever deserved a happily ever after, it's these two men.
> 
> Also, please note that while there are *several* things about the way Mary's character was resolved in S4 that don't sit right with me, I'm going to go with the positive translation of Mary's character in this fic. I know she said and did some things in "canon" that can't be reconciled with anyone good, but I get the terrible feeling that all of the characters in this show might just be human.

If you were to snoop too long into the psycho-therapy case files assigned to one Captain John Hamish Watson, MRCP, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers—as a member of the British Government was known to do, from time to time—and you knew a little something about the way John and his therapist had come to know each other in fits and starts over a period of seven years (even including the time Dr. Watson abandoned Ella’s practice in favor of a psychopath-in-disguise), you would eventually come to a rather startling conclusion drawn by said therapist, and it went something like this:

_Since I do not believe I will be honoured by Dr. Watson’s presence again in this lifetime, I hereby state for the record that I no longer believe he has PTSD.  Based on the trauma he exhibited during his last three visits, I instead think he is one of those rare war veterans who experiences post-traumatic growth (PTG).  After every trauma (save one), I am visited by a man who may retreat into himself and refuse to answer questions (as in that lone instance), but he exposes no sensitive nerve; instead, one is impressed by the resilience he shows.  More disturbingly, however, I’m concerned that he tempers his resilience with a great deal of rage._

_My main concern for Dr. Watson is that he has made no progress with his communication—specifically, he is still unable to be plain and tell the people he cares about what he needs from them, or even how he feels about them.  Instead he buries the requests and confessions, and grows incrementally angrier and more resentful towards those who are not reading his needs and intentions plainly.  The bulk of his rage seems to find its focus in the flatmate who once was, and is again, since in his experience if anyone should be able to read John Watson’s mind, it should be Sherlock Holmes._

 

 

* * *

 

 

John stood on the stoop outside 221 Baker Street, indecisive and unsure how to proceed.

His therapist’s notes very likely wouldn’t have surprised him, since she had indeed advised him to work on his communication skills.  He would have laughed off the concept of “post-traumatic growth” as so much psycho-babble.  His gut told him that no healthy human being should experience growth from watching friends get blown to bits, or toss themselves from hospital rooftops, or blow the heads off extortionists, or reconcile with estranged, murderous siblings.

And yet here he loitered, trying to summon the words he needed to ask Sherlock Holmes for a favor so personal in nature it was sure to do nothing but offend him.

_“Sherlock, I really need you to finger my arsehole.  Repeatedly.  Maybe give me a handy, too, if it isn’t too much trouble, but since I know this is a doomed conversation that likely will be deleted from your mind palace immediately upon its conclusion, I’ll just stop talking and walk out the window now.”_

John huffed out a sour chuckle.  Yeah, that wasn’t the right approach at all.

_“Sherlock, you know how I told you that you’re my best friend?  Well, as it turns out, sometimes best friends fondle each other’s arses.  Yes really.  So . . .your bedroom?”_

He pulled his hands out of his pocket and covered his face.  How had he ended up here again?

Oh, that’s right.  He sighed gustily into his own palms.  The annual physical.

John was a doctor, so naturally he stayed on top of all the routines that would, purportedly, ensure his continued existence: He went on daily walks or bike rides, he watched his sugar and salt intake, he maintained a strict schedule of immunizations and boosters, and he got himself inspected annually to ensure no unwelcome visitors were lurking in his body.

His usual doctor, Dr. Pierce, had apparently retired without any word to John, which might not have been a problem except that the new doctor (Dr. Kantor?) was an arrogant young tosser who made no small talk, who didn’t know John from any other impersonal face and frankly had an abysmal bedside manner.

The young doctor didn’t physically remind John of Sherlock but for two things: one, that outrageously condescending manner Sherlock sometimes had when John hadn’t performed a deduction with the same depth or breadth as Sherlock, and two, his hands.  Because while the kid himself was about John’s height and a Viking blond, his hands were pale and long-fingered, delicate and precise.

So there John sat on the examination table as this kid probed in his ears and mouth, lost in thought over Sherlock bloody Holmes, feeling exasperated and fond as he had during his first year as Sherlock’s flatmate, wondering if those maddening hands were even now pouring something caustic and indelible onto John’s favorite duvet, when the new doctor (Dr. Kenner?  Kemper?) told him to pull the thin hospital gown up over his hips and breathe deeply.

In a flash John remembered Sherlock after the case regarding the Six Thatcher busts, which had led to Mary’s death.  He remembered their estrangement, the dark and awful time during which John lived with a ghost and rebelled against every instinct to go to Sherlock and make sure he wasn’t self-destructing.  Which, it turned out, he was—but only to save John from his own slow downward spiral into madness.

 _The things Sherlock would do for me_ , John thought idly, grateful again that they’d managed to dig themselves out of shared heartbreak.

Suddenly cool, precise, latex-gloved hands were probing his scrotum, and the wires in his mind didn’t straighten out in time, and those hands became _Sherlock’s_ hands.  John felt a sweeping rush of vertigo as all the blood in his system redirected to the center of his body—well.  Judging by the uncontrollable fire of lust that surged through his cock, the blood was headed just slightly _south_ of center.

John gripped onto the edge of the exam table and took a very, very deep breath to keep from passing out.  The doctor behind him didn’t say anything, but then Sherlock wouldn’t, either, would he?  _He would be this clinical and this precise, and he wouldn’t tell me what that sound was (the cap being removed from medical-grade lubricant) since I’m a doctor and I should damn well know already what that sound was, shouldn’t I?_

He heard a small discharge of what was no doubt a very cold dose of lubricant, a very quietly muttered “You’ll feel pressure” from the doctor, then the tip of the man’s finger breached his anus and took no time in getting to its destination.

Here’s where John remembered that dear old retired Dr. Pierce had startlingly short and thin fingers, so much so that there would usually at this point be quite a bit of the warm, awkward laughter that often bubbled up between two cordial doctors, then Pierce would start telling John horrible puns, and John would forget that the man was basically rooting around in his arse, looking for a very delicate bundle of nerves until the bundle was found, grazed, and noted to be in good shape.

This was not Dr. Pierce, and because John didn’t have a well-organized mind palace (it was more of a mind closet full of files and photos and wank material), Dr. Kangaroo back there became Sherlock bloody Holmes, and he’d shoved his finger into John’s arse to the root and jabbed immediately against his prostate.

John was, at the moment of contact, wondering what Sherlock’s face would look like as he probed, and it was to the image of Sherlock’s fascinating eyes that John felt a wet throb shudder through him.  “Oh, Christ,” he gasped, then his heart decided to barge in to see what was going on here, took one look at that image of Sherlock’s eyes, and emptied every repressed impulse to simply _love_ Sherlock directly into John’s cock.  He came with the full force of both his heart and his prostate, and it left him sobbing as he finished his orgasm all over the thin tissue covering the exam table.

“Err,” stammered the doctor behind him.  John’s mind came back to him now to find everything inside of John in utter shambles.  It wasn’t even possible to try to save face at this point, since a thin line of drool connected a corner of John’s mouth to that defiled exam table paper.  “So, everything looks fine please take your time and I’ll e-mail you the results of the physical have a good afternoon,” the young Viking doctor stuttered as he hurriedly pulled his hand free, snapped the gloves off, and tossed them in the bio-waste receptacle on the way out of the exam room.

And this was the beginning of The Very Bad Idea, the thing that had war hero Dr. John Watson loitering on the kerb outside of his own flat. 

Because he wasn’t going to get married again, he’d decided that as he’d sold the flat he and Mary had shared and moved his and Rosie’s things into Baker Street.  He and his daughter were here for good and all, as long as Sherlock didn’t mind having him underfoot.  So why date any other women?  Why put anyone through that—especially himself, since he was attracted to the wild and dangerous.

He couldn’t unload this new-to-him fascination with his own arsehole on a woman he was dating since it wouldn’t go anywhere and very likely he’d end up in the tabloids.  He also knew better than to try to find a rent boy who could help him out.  The last thing he needed was to share this crazy new obsession with what would end up being a secret double agent who traded in blackmail material, then hear Sherlock tell him that he’d have to leave him again, this time for six months while he tried to find a way to bury this secret and _“Why on Earth did you think that would be a good idea, John?”_ with that look on his face, that superior and somewhat pitying expression that made John feel like Rosie after a scolding.

Really, who could he trust with this?

Sherlock.  Sherlock was the only person he could trust with this.

And therein lived the problem.  John had tried for three months to just ignore it, but the memory of that orgasm refused to be ignored.  It came up during random wanks in the middle of the night, when John had a hard time sleeping.  He recalled it during a shower as he attended to his own cleanliness.  He’d tried to probe his own arse, of course he had, but the angle and shallowness of his own maneuvers were unsatisfying and only left him more desperate to get off.

So much so now that he was _still_ pacing the kerb in front of his flat. 

Rosie was with Sherlock’s parents in Paris, of all places.  They’d all just finished another weekend visit with Eurus, and Rosie had been delighted with the violin music, so she’d been promised a child-sized violin for her upcoming birthday, and the Holmeses, with their typical lack of understanding that they were not supposed to indulge Rosamund’s every whim, had decided that a trip to Paris to allow her to pick her own violin was going to happen.  There was no better time to ask Sherlock for this.

“John?”

John winced before he looked up, since he’d know that voice on Judgment Day.  Sherlock was frowning at him from one of their windows.  “Yeah,” he sighed as he turned towards the front door and placed his hand on the doorknob.

“Wait.  Bring me a bacon butty from Speedy’s.”

“You hate their bacon butties.”

“It’s for an experiment.”

John grinned up at his flatmate and decided that he could wait another day before ending their friendship.  Just one more day.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock sat across from John at their kitchen table, setting up lab equipment for an experiment and sipping from the orange juice John had insisted they needed first thing that morning.  Sherlock liked orange juice.  Sherlock didn’t _love_ orange juice—and yet John had developed something of a fixation on it, judging by the rapidity with which they drained half-gallon bottles of the stuff. 

He picked at his bacon butty.  As usual, the bacon was undercooked and greasy.  He wondered if there would be any profit in either evaluating the cooktops at Speedy’s or retraining their staff.  Ever since Mr. Chatterjee left to make amends with his original wife, things hadn’t been the same. 

John was chattering on about some article he’d read online regarding the effects of global climate change on the populations of penguins in the Antarctic or something.  It was mildly stimulating, this story.  He’d always prefer a good update on the failing population of bees, or _apis mellifera_ , but this was wildlife, and an anthropomorphic, silly sort of wildlife to boot.

John was thrumming with energy.  His fingers tapped against the table as he ate his oatmeal and apple.  He absently stirred his tea with the tiny teaspoons Mrs. Hudson kept pawning off on them by leaving them about the flat so John felt compelled to clean and organize, two of his favorite hobbies.

He was lovely like this, Sherlock thought.  John in the morning, with the honey light of the new day sifting through his hair and turning the silvery gold into a nearly ephemeral epiphany.  But despite the well-known loveliness of John’s face, his obvious nervous anxiety was starting to spook Sherlock a bit.

Of course, the man had returned to Baker Street for good a year ago.  Maybe this was a new part of his personality, just the way things would be now.  After all, if you stack too many traumas on a man’s back, it was bound to take its toll, no matter how strong the spine in question was.  John had been through the proverbial wringer in his lifetime.  One straw too many, surely, that’s what’s caused this anxious energy that was making Sherlock nervous.

Because there was a possibility that this could be the beginning of the end, wasn’t there?  Sherlock had adored John from the very beginning of their acquaintance.  He didn’t know it for what it was right away, because it originally manifested as impatience and frustration, something he experienced often enough with his acquaintances.  It took him entirely too long to realize that the difference between his frustration with John and his frustration with the general population was this: the general population frustrated his mind by refusing to see the obvious and by being dull enough to disparage him for their failings.  John was, in the main, brighter than the average man, but Sherlock was frustrated by John’s refusal to see that Sherlock could give him everything he could want, if only John would stop protesting so much.  And so loudly.

If John finally opened his eyes and saw not Sherlock’s potential as a force for good in the world, but instead Sherlock’s adoration of him—that would be not good.  The magnitude of it had been ignored too long for it to be possible for John to even be kind after such a declaration.  Their fragile but redeveloping friendship wouldn’t survive it.  John would grow distant, start dating again, and eventually leave rather than encourage Sherlock’s affections.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock replayed the past several seconds of captured audio in his mind palace, slightly sped up for efficiency’s sake.  Yes, there was the upwards tick to vocal inflection that indicated a question had been asked.  “Sorry?”

“I asked, what are you doing for the rest of the week?”

Sherlock reviewed his experiments-in-progress and did some mental calculations.  It wasn’t optimal, but he had too many deadlines coming; he would have to be home for most of the week.  He sniffed when he realized that Lestrade and Molly Hooper were on holiday in Rome.  This would be a bad week.  There was a possibility he would be too bored to contain his destructive impulses.

“Trying not to blow up our flat,” he finally answered with a small nod of emphasis.

“Slow week?” John asked with that amused quirk to his lips.

“Mm.  Lestrade and Molly are off having their sex holiday—”

“Honeymoon.”

Sherlock flicked his wrist and dispelled the irrelevant correction.  “So no new cases, since nobody else will work with me anymore.  Not even Molly available to provide me with . . .samples.”

“Samples?  They were people, Sherlock.”

“Fine.  Your dear old aunt’s spotty liver.”

John sighed, but it was only the pretense of his once-formidable outrage.  “So, yeah.”  John took a deep breath and stood.  “Listen, Sherlock, I need to ask . . .”  Sherlock was listening with every one of his senses, so he heard the trailing speech and finally looked up from what he was working on.

“Are you—is that the same eyeball?”

Sherlock looked down at the very-much-worse-for-wear eyeball, suspended over a lit butane torch by the optic nerve.  “Hmm.  Yes.”  He smiled and continued, “Since Rosamund is out of the flat I thought I’d enjoy some . . .more risqué experiments.”

John gaped at it for a minute before closing his eyes and nodding.  His jaw firmed and he blinked twice.

“You needed to ask?” Sherlock prompted.

“Ah, right, yeah.  I need to ask for a . . .for a favor.”

“Mm-hmm,” Sherlock said.  He was now conducting the experiment by muscle memory; this wasn’t the first time he’d frozen a cauterized eyeball, then thawed it, then experimented on how quickly the whole thing would disintegrate when exposed to an open flame.  John would probably not approve of the results, but judging by his body language he was on the edge of bolting from the flat over the sheer awkwardness of a favor he hadn’t requested yet.  He’d be gone long enough for Sherlock to clean up after the experiment.

“So yeah.  I think I’ll ask.  I’ll ask tomorrow.  Yep, tomorrow.”

Sherlock looked up at him, blinking owlishly through his goggles.  “Tomorrow?”

John swallowed, cast another uneasy glance at the eyeball, then stood so quickly from the table that he nearly upset his chair.  He nodded at Sherlock and sprinted from the flat.

He was indeed gone long enough for Sherlock to clean up the results of his experiment.

 

* * *

 

 

John was driving himself mad.

He’d returned to a flat that smelled suspiciously of the kind of cleaning agent Sherlock used when in a hurry to clean up biological waste.  He winced and thought about that damned eyeball, and hoped that, for the sake of the memory of the person who’d originally owned the eyeball, it was finally done.  He wasn’t superstitious enough to believe that the soul wouldn’t rest without all its physical parts accounted for, of course not.  But he’d use that image to justify his unease over Sherlock’s weird experiments.

Whatever it took to make himself comfortable in an environment anyone else would escape as soon as possible.

Except—here he was, feeling like the big question he was going to pop _tomorrow_ would be the end of the life he shared at 221B Baker Street and dreading every second that slipped through his grasp.  He busied himself with laundry to burn off some of the nervous energy, then ran downstairs to put the trash (some of it marked “biohazard”) in the bins.  He went back upstairs and took a shower and again failed to ignore the fantasy of Sherlock’s elegant fingers jammed up his arse as far as they’d go.  He forced himself to stay silent until he’d had a fantastic orgasm, then finished his shower and emerged.  Back to the laundry, then some dusting—

“John.”

He looked up from where he’d been dusting off the mantel over the fireplace to see Sherlock sitting in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his face and eyes fixed on John.

“Yeah?”

“What’s wrong?”

John took a deep breath and let out a nervous chuckle.  There was no point in asking the world’s most observant man why he thought something was wrong.  He knew already he’d been discharging nervous energy.  Hell, he’d done it on purpose.  But he hadn’t done it to get Sherlock’s attention.

He shrugged.  “Just my.  My favor, the one that I’ll be asking tomorrow.”

Sherlock put his hands down and leaned forward in his chair.  “John, er.  You must know that whatever you need, if it’s in my power to give it, I will.”

John felt himself flushing bright red and hoped the darkness of the flat was sufficient to hide this reaction.  He let out a cut-off bark of laughter.  “I don’t know, Sherlock.  This is a big one.”

“Whatever you need.  It’s yours.”

John felt a lump rise in his throat.  This was Sherlock now, he realized; there hadn’t been anything that John had asked from him since he’d returned from his two years . . . _away_ . . .that he’d refused.  He was better than his word.  He was a true friend. 

But how much could true friendship tolerate? 

There was no going back, John realized as he slowly sank into his own chair.  The situation was too far gone.  He was a man of few needs, but his needs were all-or-nothing: the thrill of the chase, the simple pleasures of a good meal, and sex.  Really fantastic, vigorous sex.

 _And someone to live for,_ he thought, meeting Sherlock’s eyes again.  _Don’t forget that._

He almost had it all, but the notable exception became more and more insistent every day.  He needed to get this resolved, and fast, or he really would lose the ability to appreciate any of the remaining joys in his life.

“Let me . . .let me work on it.  I can’t just ask.”

Sherlock gave him back a small shrug.  “You can, but it can wait.”  He peered again into John’s face.  “Not long, I expect, but it can wait.”

John nodded, said, “Goodnight, Sherlock,” rose from his chair, and went to his room, hoping it wouldn’t be his last night of comfort at Baker Street.

He couldn’t sleep for hours.  When he finally did, he dreamed of being back in front of that fire, both of them leaning into each other’s personal space, Sherlock murmuring _“Whatever you need, it’s yours.  Anything, John.  You can have everything.”_

The next morning he woke up with an erection that scared him, it was so intense.  He stroked himself and bit down on the heel of his other hand, picturing Sherlock and his precise, elegant fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock was terrified.

What on Earth was John waiting for?  Had Sherlock not already proven a hundred times over that he would go above and beyond for their friendship?  Had John finally twigged to the fact that Sherlock was completely bonkers in love with John, and he wanted it to _stop_ because he wasn’t gay?

He hated waiting for answers, but John had asked for that, so once again Sherlock would prove he would deliver on any request.

No matter how aggravating.

But he didn’t have to wait in the sitting room of the flat, nor any of the common areas, in fact.  He locked himself in his room and entered his mind palace.

Right away John Watson stood in front of him, a bemused smile on his face.  _“What’s got you so unhappy, hey?”_

Sherlock approached this apparition and surveyed him.  He was wearing that rust-colored cardigan over a button-up, as usual.  His hair was back to the careless mussing that Sherlock favored, not the sleek, slicked-back elegance he’d been sporting shortly before and after Mary’s death.  On the surface, everything seemed fine.

But he didn’t trust surface facts.  He focused and saw the tells that things were not fine.

John’s hands were alternating between a tremble and clenched fists.  His lips were pressed together, a sure sign of stress.  His gaze didn’t stay on Sherlock, as it usually did; it skittered away often, roaming the room for a place to rest.  He fidgeted, a sign that he was on the verge of bolting.

_“I’m unhappy because you’re afraid.  You should never be afraid, especially not of anything you need to ask of me.  Is it to do with Rosamund?”_

_“No, no.  Rosie’s fine.  Has it occurred to you, Sherlock, that maybe the favor I have to ask is uncomfortably personal?”_

_“Why would that matter?”_

_“Because we don’t do those things, those . . .personal . . .things.  We don’t talk about how we feel, or what we need from each other.  We just assume we each know.”_

_“And that’s not enough anymore?”_

_“I have needs.  I can’t ask anyone else, or I would have.  I wouldn’t disturb our friendship for anything in the world, but it’s tearing me apart.”_

Sherlock thought he should say something, but it was no good.  He was rising from his mind palace because someone _outside_ was shaking his shoulders.

“What?” he asked before he was even fully aware of the time and place.

He opened his eyes and John’s face swam into focus.  He wiggled Sherlock’s mobile in front of his eyes.  “C’mon, Sherlock.  Lestrade.  Case.”

 

* * *

 

 

Thirteen hours later Sherlock was sitting next to John in an ambulance as they made their way to University College in London so that poison could be removed from John’s system as safely as possible.  Sherlock was trembling from fear, constantly checking John’s fluttering pulse despite the monitoring systems in place.  He suspected he was justifying his need for touch and John’s need for reassurance that he was nearby. 

John was delirious, and he was cramping, and Sherlock worried that he might pass out, and that wouldn’t be good—so he slipped his grip from John’s pulse down into his hand.

John opened glassy eyes and fixed his weak gaze on Sherlock.  “Hey there,” he said softly.  “You alright?”

“No,” Sherlock answered truthfully—because he wasn’t.  He was so anxious he thought he might vomit. 

“What’s wrong?” John asked, his eyes coming into slightly sharper focus.

“This, John, _this_ ,” Sherlock answered, gesturing at the entirety of their environment.  “None of this is okay.”

“Better me than you,” John said softly, and squeezed Sherlock’s hand in his.  He then winced.  His other hand grasped the fabric of his jumper over his belly.

Sherlock shook his head, trying to think of something he could do to distract John from his discomfort.  He thought maybe a joke would do it.  Or maybe he could relate a case from when he was _away_. 

Before he could come up with anything, he blurted out, “John, your favor.  What is it?  What would you have me do for you?”

John’s mouth quirked into a small smile.  “’M dreaming, aren’t I?” he asked.  “You’re holding my hand and offering favors.  This must be a dream.”

“Just answer the question, John.”

John winced again, both hands tightening, one in Sherlock’s grip and the other on his own jumper.  “Fine.”  He blinked and despite his waxy complexion, Sherlock thought he saw two bright points of pink stand out on John’s cheeks.  “I just—I miss intimacy.  Had it for a bit, you know, with Mary.  I miss it.”

“Do you mean sex?” Sherlock asked.

“Hm, is that all I mean?” John asked in return, his voice light and musing, his eyes distant and a little starry.  “That was it, to start.”

Sherlock was confused by this.  He didn’t like being confused by anything related to John.  He’d frankly been convinced they’d covered all the ground they could bear to cover with each other, after that cathartic moment in Baker Street when they’d faced Mary’s ghost together and somehow survived with their friendship not only intact, but stronger for it.

“Listen, Sherlock,” John said, his eyes growing a little clearer despite the pain and the ill effects of the poison in his system.  “I’m not completely convinced that this is reality, but I have to—I have to ask.  My favor.”

“Yes.  Whatever it is, it’s yours,” Sherlock whispered fervently, because he meant it.

 “I need you to touch my prostate.”

“What?”

Despite his obvious distress, John barked out a laugh.  “Yeah, that’s about the reaction I expected.”

“John, I don’t understand.”

“Yeah, I don’t really, either.  I just know that—I need that.  I can’t stop thinking about it, and I don’t trust anyone else.”  John swallowed and looked queasy, and the words he spoke were very, _intensely_ personal, and he was more vulnerable now than he’d ever been. 

Sherlock couldn’t leave him stranded like this.  It wasn’t how they _were_ , not after Mary, not after the well.  They were a unit, and Sherlock would be damned if he would do anything to upset their balance, not while it was still so strangely fragile.  “All right.”

John frowned up at him.  “All right?  That simple, is it?”

“You need it.  I’m the only person you trust to provide it.  Yes, that simple.”

John had more to say, Sherlock could tell—but before he was able to say a word he passed out.

Sherlock watched him and fussed as the ambulance came to a frantic stop at the trauma entrance of the hospital and staff came out to see to John.  Sherlock recognized a couple of the doctors who were even now taking control of the situation and relaxed.  They were out of danger.  John was going to be okay.

But Sherlock thought about John’s request and thought that perhaps, they would never be the same.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock’s parents were flawed human beings, absolutely.  Eurus was a prime example of that.  But sometimes John thought it was possible that they were also angels.

The argument he’d just had with Sherlock’s mum, for instance, during which she talked over his objections that Rosie couldn’t possibly still be a _pleasure_ to look after, not after a full week already, not after a trip to Paris, not after the shrieking noises she was making with that violin in their house—the fact that he could argue with these two and still come out of it smiling reminded him that not only were they Sherlock’s parents, but they’d accepted as written that they were practically his parents, too, and they loved his daughter as though she was of their blood.

“You being a good girl?” he asked his daughter when she was handed the phone.  She smiled prettily at him through FaceTime, and his heart panged a little when he saw Mary’s smile.

“Pop-pop says I am,” she said with a careless toss of her caramel curls.

“But do _you_ think you’re a good girl?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter who I think I am, it matters what I do,” she said softly, then hoisted a stuffed animal that was as big as she was and forced it into the camera.  “Look, an ell-funt!”

“El-eh-funt,” John said, stressing the three different syllables.  His daughter was three years old now, and in such a hurry to learn everything that sometimes she missed the details.

“Elly-funt,” she mimicked, then put the stuffed toy aside.  “Where is Sherlock?”

“Right here, darling girl,” Sherlock said from where he sat at John’s bedside in the recovery ward in the hospital.  John handed his phone to Sherlock, who smiled broadly into the phone.

“Are you taking care of my daddy?” she asked, her face stern, and again John thought of Mary with a pang.  Sometimes he wondered if she was speaking through their daughter.

“Absolutely.  See?  Still alive.  I promised you.  I will never let him go.”

She nodded, then her face softened a little.  “Never?”

His own facetious smirk softened into a gentle smile.  “I will never let either of you go.”

John’s heart swelled with warmth.  The love he felt right then was so much he thought it might drown him where he lay.

Satisfied, Rosie nodded and beamed at Sherlock.  “Good. I’m not coming home yet, so you need to look after Daddy a little longer, okay?”

“Yes mum,” Sherlock said dutifully.

“Make sure he’s eating.”

“Mmhmm.”

“And run him.”

“That’s how we ended up in hospital.”

“Less dangerous.”

“Yes mum.”

“And give him kisses goodnight.”

“Rosie—” John tried to interrupt.  It was going to be his lifelong task, he knew.  His daughter was quickly becoming the main instigator of this conversation in their life, the Endless Conversation of _Are They Or Aren’t They?_

“I will,” Sherlock said warmly before cutting a disapproving look at John.

“Good.  Tell Daddy I’ll talk with him tomorrow.”

The phone seemed to be forcefully taken from Rosie and Sherlock’s mother reentered the screen.  “Sherlock, we’re taking Rosamund to Milan tomorrow by train.  It might be a little later than usual.”

“Fine, fine,” he said, his manner instantly changing from warm and affectionate to harried.

“Now do as you promised and take care of John.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

She frowned at him, then blew him a kiss before ending the call.

“Why is that always an ordeal?” Sherlock sighed, giving John his mobile back.

“It’s not,” John said.  He felt tired—exhausted, really.  It didn’t matter how many times he was poisoned, it never got any easier.  Hell, as he grew older he knew it would only get more difficult.

Sherlock smiled at him, one of the rare smiles that it seemed only John saw, but he saw it more and more often.  “I think I’ve talked your doctors into releasing you into my care.”

“Give me my chart,” John said crisply as he pushed himself up in bed.

“Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you, that’s why.”

“Lies,” Sherlock muttered.  “Besides, you know they don’t do the whole paper-chart thing anymore.  It’s all electronic.”

John considered this for a moment.  Did he trust Sherlock?

 _Of course_ , whispered Mary’s voice in the back of his head.

It was true.  So he relaxed back into the hospital gurney and waited for discharge, wondering why he wasn’t making more of a fuss that Sherlock had promised to give him goodnight kisses.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later and Sherlock finally found a good time to bring up The Favor.

John was well again and was itching for something to do.  He restlessly cleaned the flat (“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, a child lives here.  Can we not leave petri dishes full of angry bacteria on the kitchen table?”  “It’s not _angry_ , John.” “Not the actual point.”), did the shopping, and paid the bills.  If he remembered their surreal conversation in the ambulance, he didn’t remember it.

Which might be fine, Sherlock thought, at least at first.  Because the idea of sticking his finger up John Watson’s arse was cataclysmic.  He could let it go, of course he could.

But he saw the tension in John’s frame.  He recognized that John was leaving it up to him.  They both knew.  They knew that they knew.  And if he continued to defer the talk it might carve a rift between them that they could probably recover from, but a rift was a rift and it couldn’t be tolerated.

But being the brave one was difficult in these kinds of intense personal situations.  He tried out and discarded a thousand different approaches in his head, and the thinking about it was wearing on him.

_My finger in his arse, feeling the warmth of him, welcome, my touch welcome, oh god._

Finally, because he couldn’t tolerate thinking about it any longer and knowing he had to say _something_ before John called Mycroft to warn of a danger night, he blurted out: “So, how does this work? Do I need to make an appointment?”

John looked up from where he’d been crouched in front of the fireplace, trying to get a fire started so they could enjoy a quiet evening in.  His eyes were round, his expressive eyebrows bracketing them in surprise.  “What now?”

“The.  Er.  The favor you asked of me.”

John’s face turned so red Sherlock temporarily worried about his blood pressure.  “Oh.”  John sat back on his haunches and let out a deep sigh.  “Yes, right.  That.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Do you want me to put it on our calendar?” Sherlock asked, gesturing absently at the refrigerator (in which sat several weird samples in various states of decay, reminding John of the pre-Fall days and) upon which sat the “family” calendar they used to communicate appointments, share tasks for Rosie, and—

John’s thoughts froze for a moment.  Sherlock had said “our calendar.”  The “family” calendar.

Somehow, that seemed fitting.  He rose from where he’d been and slowly, deliberately made his way to the fridge.  He uncapped the Sharpie they kept on a magnet near the calendar and reviewed the dates.  “Have you updated this?”

Sherlock fidgeted nearby, but nodded.

John turned his face back to the calendar and quickly entered a note for the next day:

**John/Sherlock exam**

He could feel Sherlock approach, could feel him come to a stop less than a foot behind him, could feel him study the note.  “What time?” he asked softly.

John considered this, but did not face Sherlock as he did so—because he was fairly confident he knew that Sherlock would interpret his facial expressions as Panic.  Instead he added to his note:

**John/Sherlock exam 5pm**

He finally turned to face Sherlock and found him to be very, very close.  He looked up into his face.  He had hoped to project confidence, that soldier attitude that this was fine, there was nothing too crazy going on here, and it was _all fine_.  That’s what he hoped to project.  But he took one look at Sherlock’s wide eyes and understood.  This might not be fine. 

John forced a smile.  They had to push through this.  There was no going back.

“It’s fine,” he said softly. 

“Exam?” Sherlock said, and his eyes said _gratitude_ and _relief_ and _hope_.

“Thought you’d appreciate it,” John said, moving away from the calendar because he was uncomfortable with it, now that it was in print and solidly placed within this reality.

“Did you?”

John shrugged.  “Tried to make it more . . .clinical?  Scientific?”

Sherlock nodded and returned to the desk to rifle through some mail as John again made his way to the fireplace.  John thought it was over until he heard, in a soft, baritone rumble: “Don’t injure yourself, _Doctor_.”

John didn’t laugh.  He only smiled.  And allowed himself to become a little nervous.

 

 

* * *

 

 

By the next day at 5pm Sherlock was fairly certain he was going insane.

He tried to pretend it was any other day, but by 10am he’d ruined four experiments and given up the whole enterprise as a bad job.  He then pretended not to notice that John had disappeared into the bathroom around 2pm with a few “cleaning supplies” of a non-bathroom-tile nature, and then he utterly failed to keep himself from fantasizing about John in there, “cleaning” himself.

For Sherlock.  For what they would be doing.

For his part, Sherlock tried to prepare himself, just in a very non-dramatic way.  He failed at that, too.  He rather dramatically opened two new boxes of gloves (one nitrile, one latex) and left them on the kitchen table, next to the non-toxic remains of one of his botched experiments.  Thirty minutes later he emerged from the bathroom, freshly-showered, to find the nitrile gloves back in storage under the sink, the top taped carefully to avoid contamination.

He resisted for half an hour, then succumbed and slid free a pair of the latex gloves.  He pressed his hands into them.  He cut free a fingertip and put it under his microscope.  As he stared at the molecular composition of latex—a view he knew very well already—he wondered at the thought:

_In less than an hour this material will be all that separates me from feeling John from the inside._

He shivered, and thought he saw John shiver, too.

Finally, the wait was over.  As often happened between them, they moved as one in silent accord to Sherlock’s bedroom.  Once they got there, however, the awkwardness tried to set in.

Sherlock refused to allow it.  He threw one of his dressing gowns (the most recently laundered one) in John’s direction and nodded at the bed.  “Please disrobe and arrange yourself prone on the bed, covered by the gown.  I’ll return in a moment.”

He then went into the bathroom and started to freak out.  He made several outraged faces at himself in the mirror.  His hands were shaking as he collected the lubricant and gloves from where they waited at the sink.

Suddenly the reflection in the mirror changed. Mary was staring at him, a small smile quirking her mouth, her eyes twinkling.

“Calm down,” she admonished immediately.

“Can’t, busy,” he said, a note of hysterical panic rising in his voice.

“You have to.  _Now_ ,” she said, and the command in her reminded him very much of John.  He found himself calming, but not stilling. 

“Still freaking out a bit,” he said softly to her.

“That’s fine.  I did, too, the first time with him.”

“Did you?” he asked in a whisper.  If it was odd to be having a conversation with his best friend’s dead wife, he wasn’t going to acknowledge it.  After all, chatting with her in the sitting room was what had prompted John to finally _talk_ , to confess his fears and insecurity that he could ever be enough for anyone, let alone Sherlock.

“Oh, yes,” she said.  She was leaning against one of the walls of the bathroom, a golden light shining on her hair.  “He had been trying so hard, you know?  Since we met, he tried so hard to find that happy place inside him so he could offer it to me.  I knew it was a gesture of gratitude, but by then I was so crazy about him I didn’t care.”

“He found that happy place, I take it.”

“Yes.”  She nodded, then moved closer until she seemed to be standing right behind him, her face near his shoulder.  “He got a video from you, you see.  He was able to see your face again and hear your voice.  He was absolutely ready that night.”

Sherlock felt something in his chest lurch, but shook it off.  “Doesn’t matter.  This is different.”

“Oh, you idiot,” she said, her voice roughened to a growl.  “Only because you say so.  He told you he needs intimacy again.  Don’t you _dare_ twist that to mean he just wants you to tickle his prostate.”

“That’s what he asked for,” Sherlock said sternly.  “That’s what I’ll give him.”

“You poor bastard,” she said, and he noted that it wasn’t the usual chummy ribbing they used to indulge in.  This almost felt like pity.  “He’s waiting for you.”

Sherlock nodded.  He left the bathroom, his grip on the lube and gloves much more confident.

“He’s always been waiting for you,” Mary whispered to no one before she vanished.

 

* * *

 

John thought he heard some muttering in the bathroom as he removed his clothing, slipped into Sherlock’s dressing gown, and arranged himself on the bed.  He thought it might be Sherlock trying to psych himself into this and felt his face burst into flame.

 _What the hell am I doing?_ he wondered.  _Why am I doing this to our friendship?_   He felt like a depraved pervert, a man with no control at all over his impulses, asking his possibly-asexual best friend to play with his arse like it was a game of Operation.

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom holding gloves and a tube of lubricant, a wide grin on his face.  “Ready?” he asked.

John huffed a hot breath against his forearm, then dared a nervous smile.  He should have known.  This was just another game, another experiment for Sherlock.  How exciting for him! 

“Ready when you are,” John said softly.  And he was surprised to realize that it was true.

 

* * *

 

 

Sherlock knelt behind John on the bed, his knees in the vee of John’s spread legs.  The light in the room was out, and the only light available was what sunlight remained from cloud cover and through curtains—but it would do.  He could see very well, actually—the way John’s arse curved under his dressing gown, the strength of his doctor’s back, the almost casual way his arms were propped under his chin.  He was beautiful like this, and for a moment, if Sherlock didn’t screw this up, he belonged to Sherlock.

Proceeding from there was almost too easy.  Sherlock allowed himself to _feel_ , fully and without reservations or fear.  He carefully lifted the dressing gown up and over John’s arse.  John twitched, but otherwise did not move.  Sherlock tried not to cry.  John was _gorgeous_.  His buttocks were smooth and rounded, showing a level of fitness that surpassed any previous conception of such in the past.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment and reminded himself forcefully that spending too much time at this stage would seem like either reluctance or fear, and while there was a part of him that felt both, he didn’t want John to think that.  Never John.

“Tell me,” Sherlock said softly, then cleared his throat so his voice would be more convincingly neutral.  “Tell me what you’re looking for, out of this.”

John took a deep breath and tried to still an avalanche of tremors that shook through him.  “I want to come.”

Sherlock winced his eyes closed again.  So many fantasies included those exact words in roughly that exact order, and to hear them aloud in John’s own voice made him realize that his fantasies fell well short of the mark.  “From prostate stimulation.”

“Yes.”

“Very well.”  Sherlock slowly and deliberately put his gloves on, then took the lube in shaking hands and dispensed a small amount into his right palm to give in a chance to warm up.

“God, Sherlock,” John whispered. 

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked automatically.  Making John come was never going to be more important than making sure his best friend was still okay with this.

“Yes, yes, fine,” John muttered.  “Just get on with it already.”

Putting it off was no longer an option, then.  Sherlock slowly slid his gloved left hand over the swell of John’s left cheek.  It was beautiful, this, just this experience.  From what he could feel through the glove, John’s skin was soft, the muscle underlying it firm.  This was fascinating, and Sherlock wanted to simply give in to all of his urges and stroke, and kiss, and _mark_.

But this . . .wasn’t _that_ , was it?  This wasn’t a romantic exploration between lovers.  This was a clinical attempt to gain a specific end.  He needed to stop going off on these tangents and do what John asked, and just _get on with it already_.

He carefully pressed against John’s left buttock until it parted from its partner to reveal John’s very clean and lightly furred anus.  John hummed, a deep, almost fearful sound.  Sherlock lightly pressed the tip of his right index finger against that furled knot.

“Oh god,” John sighed.  Sherlock increased the pressure.  John wiggled his hips a little, forcing Sherlock’s index finger to sweep across his anus, and Sherlock got the hint.  He moved his first two fingers in wide movements, side to side then up and down, trying to get that muscle to relax.

Meanwhile, John was making positively delicious noises against his forearm, little needy whimpers and soft inhalations of breath that went straight to Sherlock’s cock.  He was surprised he’d managed to avoid an erection thus far, but it was inevitable now.  His cock slowly started to fill as he curled his fingers softly and started to massage John’s anus with his knuckles.

“God yeah,” John whispered, and there was a growl in his voice that Sherlock didn’t recognize, a purely _sexual_ sound that derailed what little thought he had left for procedure, for making this seem like an impersonal event.  This was personal.  This was _deeply_ personal.  There was nothing more personal than touching John this way.  There couldn’t be, not with who they were or what they’d been through together.

Whether John realized it or not, Sherlock was going to make love to him.  It was decided.

“Good?” Sherlock asked in a soft whisper.

“Yes,” John answered.  “Please, put one in now.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly, and then did just that.  The muscle relaxed and his index finger slid into John’s hole up to the second knuckle with no resistance.

“Oh, my god,” John moaned, and his hips moved again, knees pressing against the bed to lift his arse up, to impale himself on Sherlock’s finger.  “Please, more.”

Sherlock wanted to bite him, to lay himself over John’s back and _take_ , and _mark_ , and _possess_.  He shook his head and gave his doctor what he wanted.  “Like that?” he asked as he pushed the rest of his finger in.

“Just like that, oh yeah,” John groaned.  “Jesus, that’s fantastic.  Do you—do you know where the prostate is?”

Sherlock did.  He’d found his own, of course.  With a sad smile he remembered that he’d conducted a couple of experiments in the morgue, before Molly began working there.  He knew enough.  “Every man is different, John,” he said, and was surprised by how deep his voice sounded even to his own ears.

“Yeah,” John said.  Sherlock could see how his thighs were trembling.  “But not that different.”

Sherlock thought about what he was doing, who he was doing it to, and wondered exactly how far he would go to make John happy.  He thought about everyone in his life, his friends and family.  He thought about what he wanted out of life, now that the dust had settled and they were settled again, in their home with their cases, raising Rosamund like a team.

He would do anything for John.

He tilted his wrist and softly passed his finger over John’s prostate.

John jerked and cried out, a sound of joy and tension and need that filled Sherlock’s head.

“Yeah, there, oh god, yeah,” John panted.  “More.”

“More what?” Sherlock asked, tension making his voice harsh. 

“More . . .more you,” John grunted. 

 _More me?_ Sherlock wondered to himself.  His cock was completely filled out now, painfully so, and it was insisting that John meant he wanted to be stuffed with Sherlock’s cock now.  Right now. 

“More me?  What does that even mean?” Sherlock asked, and now he realized he was starting to sound panicked.  Well, of course he was.  He was buried finger-deep in the arse of the love of his life, and his virgin cock was now irrevocably aroused.

“Put. Another. Finger. In.” John said, and it sounded like he was just as panicked.  “ _Now_.”

Sherlock tried to just shove another finger in, but the angle was wrong because he didn’t feel like he could bear to remove his index finger from John’s hole.  Eventually he realized he was being an idiot and he slipped his finger free.

“More,” John said.  Sherlock was trembling, but he grinned; that was the voice of his John Watson, his assertive soldier reporting for duty in this very strange situation.  He felt more secure, knowing that version of John was nearby to take care of all threats.  He slowly but deliberately slid two well-lubed and gloved fingers into John’s hole.

“Hng!” John wiggled again, and Sherlock watched him like he’d never watched him before.  John’s body was breaking into a sweat, and he was making those noises again, and Sherlock curved his fingers again and this time pressed them both—

“Oh god yes more,” John shouted, and his hips started to pump, and Sherlock realized that John’s cock was rubbing against either the front of his dressing gown or directly against his duvet, and he suddenly couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, this was too much—

He sat back, took hold of John’s ankles, and flipped him over.  He was indeed naked, Sherlock’s dressing gown covering only his arms, his full torso on display, his cock hard and dripping pre-cum onto his abdomen.  His eyes were wide, his pupils blown, his lips wet and red from the bite of his own teeth.  He was magnificent.

“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock observed how his knees pulled up, exposing him again to Sherlock’s gaze.  “Please, don’t leave me like this.”

“Oh, I had no intention of leaving you, John.  Not ever.”  Sherlock slipped his fingers back into John’s arse and leaned in close, pressing his fully clothed chest against his doctor’s naked one.  John inhaled sharply and Sherlock pressed his lips up against John’s ear.  “But I want to see you.  I have to see you.”

Sherlock pressed against that bundle of nerves again, with more force than before, and John yelped.  “Oh, Christ!” John moaned.

“Yes, let me see you, let me hear you,” Sherlock said, his lips trembling.  He was flying high now, no filter, no discipline, and he was mere steps away from saying too much, but this was amazing, holding John in his arms, working his fingers in and out of that lovely arse, watching John intensely.  So what if he couldn’t partition his sentiment off any longer?  This was John.  This was _his_ John, and they trusted each other utterly.  John could take it, if Sherlock said it.  He could. 

“Why?” John whimpered after another jab against his prostate.  He covered his face, his eyes, with one of his hands.  “Oh god, Sherlock, why do you have to see me?”

“Because you’re beautiful,” Sherlock whispered against John’s temple.  He nosed John’s hand aside and made it clear he wouldn’t tolerate John hiding, then he pulled his hand free and carefully pressed three fingers in, scissoring them lightly, running them each over John’s now-well-beloved prostate.

“Oh, Sherlock, oh my god, oh, please, there, give it to me, give me everything, please, Sherlock, I’m asking you, give me everything, please, oh god how much I love you—”

And Sherlock lost it.  He pressed himself against John, rutting against him, his cock desperately trying to escape his trousers and get inside John, where he now knew he belonged.  He pressed his lips against John’s ear: “And I love you, John, I always have, it’s always been you, I’m yours, whatever you want of me, come for me, now, I’ve got you—”

John came with a shout, and Sherlock knew he had to taste that, so he locked his lips over John’s breathed his breath, tasted his words, felt his arse clench around his fingers, felt the hot flood of his come blossom over his own clothes.  He watched John still, even as his own arousal threatened to short-circuit his optic nerves, and when he was sure John was enjoying the aftershocks he desperately shucked himself free of his trousers, pushing them down to his thighs to free his cock.  He slid his left hand free of John, sliding his hand up along his perineum and scrotum to collect as much of John’s ejaculate as he could, then reached that gloved hand down and wrapped it around his own cock.  It was slick, and still warm from John’s body, and Sherlock felt for a moment like he had transferred the essence of John’s arse onto his hand, and now he was fucking his hand—

He came, and felt John collect him against himself, and allowed himself to be held as he orgasmed for the first time in his life in front of another person.  John’s lips were moving over his forehead and his soft voice was murmuring something to him, gently, carefully, tenderly.

“You love me,” John whispered when Sherlock was sure he’d regained his senses.

“Yes,” he said.  His voice was raw, which indicated he’d been shouting.  He didn’t remember shouting.

“In a . . .romantic way?”

“Of course,” Sherlock said.  John wasn’t appalled.  In fact, he looked rather delighted.

“And—so, in fact, you don’t mind . . .?”

“What, being in a relationship with you?” Sherlock asked incredulously.  “John, I thought you understood.  You made this appointment on our _shared_ calendar.  You have all but told Rosamund to call me Papa.  We’re already _in_ a relationship.”

John smirked.  “Well, yes, but all this—”

“What, your heretofore unknown willingness to allow a man to satisfy you?” Sherlock asked.  “Did you honestly think that would put me off?”

“Not just any man,” John said.  “Turns out I’ve a thing for consulting detectives.”

“Then it’s a very good thing I’m the only one in the world.”

“You invented the job.”

As they’d bantered they moved closer until they were wrapped up in each other’s arms, Sherlock still mostly clothed and John virtually naked.

“You do realize, don’t you?  That this is permanent?  For me?” John asked tentatively, and the hesitation in his voice nearly broke Sherlock’s heart.

“Would it reassure you to know that on your wedding day I imagined it was myself you were marrying?” Sherlock asked.

John leaned back to see Sherlock’s face better.  Once he’d seen what he needed to, he winced.  “Oh, god.  Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

“No, no need.  You were just so attractive that day, so happy.  I was honored to stand with you.  You can’t blame me for that, can you?”

“No, never,” John whispered.  He pulled Sherlock’s hands closer to his chest and slowly started to remove the gloves from those long fingers, then kissed each fingertip in turn.

“This is it, for me,” Sherlock whispered.  He softly kissed John on the mouth.

John deepened the kiss, and Sherlock was startled to realize that this was their first proper kiss.  He closed his eyes and again let himself feel.  He was quickly realizing that in sentimental acts, the brain just got in the way.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” John said softly against his lips before the kiss started again, and Sherlock remembered Mary’s words of encouragement.

Sherlock let John kiss him, learning quickly, then unleashed his new knowledge along with his own instinctive desire to please this man.  John gave back just as forcefully, grasping him by the nape of the neck, the shoulders, the waist, wherever he could reach.

Sherlock finally broke away when he couldn’t hold his breath any longer, and gave John a smirk while he recovered his breath.  “So, how often do you imagine you’ll need this service provided to you?”

“God, I knew you’d be fantastic at this,” John giggled, a little bit of embarrassment breaking through in the form of a blush.  “Daily.”

“Daily?”

“Well, at least at first.”

“And, fingers?”

John gave him a nearly feral smile.  “What are you suggesting, Mr. Holmes?  Are you gagging to bum me?”

He thought about saying something arrogant, something that would distance him from the emotional weight of this moment, but threw caution to the wind because this was _his John_ , and there would never again be an inch of emotional distance between them, not if he could help it.  “Yes,” Sherlock said, peppering kisses along John’s jaw.  “And I’m gagging for you to return the favor.  That looked devastating.”

“It was.”  John grinned, that sunshine grin that Sherlock loved best.  “Because it was you.”

 

* * *

 

 

If Rosie noticed that her daddy now slept in the same bedroom as Papa Sherlock instead of in the same room with her and her toddler bed, she made no fuss about it.  She’d been thinking for a while now that she deserved her own room.  Hell, even her Mom-mom and Pop-pop had been planting the idea in her head.  After all, two people who loved each other _that much_ should always be together.

And now she had a place that was all her own to practice her violin and start her own blog.

—fin—

 


End file.
